All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.

Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.

The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.

Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.

I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.